Flower without a stem
Finally. The map didn't lie. The first houses of the mountain village, shrouded in a veil of rain. What weather, anchor in the ass!
Sliding down the slope, Nash splashed through the puddles of the single street of Houho, a hamlet lost in the Appalachians. The rain, roaring around, suddenly fell silent, as if switched off, and Nash heard:
— Hоw i lоng tо sее him аnd rеgrеt thе dаrk hоur,
Hе s gоnе аnd nеglеctеd his pаlе wildwооd flоwеr…
A voice, either a woman's or a child's, was singing. Nash even stopped.
Realizing the singing was coming from the nearest bungalow, he splashed over there. Shreds of fog drifted from above, partially revealing the forested belly of Mount St. Patrick.
To the strumming of a guitar, the voice repeated:— … His pаlе wildwооd flоwеr…
"Interesting, damn it," thought Nash. "Mountains, downpour, godforsaken backwater, full of yokels, and a song. 'Wildwood flower…'"
Approaching the bungalow, he saw the singer. And froze.
"Damn it," he whispered to himself. The singer was sitting on the porch. She was wet and, apparently, completely naked. At least from the waist up, she had nothing on but droplets of water and heavy hair enveloping her back. Below the waist, she was covered by the porch railing.
The wet back in its ginger cocoon arched so enticingly that Nash suddenly felt an ache in his body. "Wildwood flower, damn it," he thought. The singer's face was covered in raindrops and freckles. Just moments ago on the slopes of St. Patrick, Nash had been painting flowers like this face—pale, splattered with dew and nectar. The naked singer sang softly, as if to herself, and was doubly beautiful for it, and Nash felt uneasy for having spied on her conversation with the rain.
Suddenly the song broke off.
— What do you want? Who are you? Were you lying in wait? Go away!..
She squealed from fright, like a little girl.
— I wasn't lying in wait. I was just listening. You weren't hiding, — Nash told her, smiling just in case.
— Why are you standing there? Why are you looking? Go away! I don't know you.
— And if you did know me—would it be okay to look?
— Go away!
— Listen, I'll turn around now, and you come out, get dressed, and we…
— Go away!… — the girl pressed herself fearfully into the guitar, and Nash strode away.
— You sing very well! — he shouted without turning around. — I could listen and listen.
"A timid mountain creature," he thought, trudging through the mud. "It's okay, I'll be back. Curious: why didn't she run away immediately, but sat there as if glued? I wish I could see her thighs… and paint them… and…"
Nash was so inspired that he walked right past the bar he'd come to Houho for. Cursing cheerfully, he turned around and headed back.
***
— Eat up, mister, — the old man served Nash a steak with noodles. — Don't often see a new mug… I mean, physiognomy… I mean… Who might you be? A hunter? A traveling salesman? A vagrant?
— I'm an artist.
— Ah. A vagrant, then. Well, it's none of my business. My business is to give you food, your business is to pay for it. You paid me money, damn you, and I have no…
— So who is that girl?
— A girl. So, a girl. Evelyn. Evie. Of course, you mean her, though we have other girls. Yes, we have…
— Long-haired, red-haired, damn beautiful, sings songs, plays the gui…
— I know! Don't teach me, mister vagrant! I'll teach you. Listen here. It's been two years, two years and a quarter. Two years since little Evie hasn't walked…
— Is she sick?
— Stuff your mouth with food, mister vagrant, and open your ears! So, as I said, two years, even more. The Carmichaels came here several years ago, hiding from the Olsens. God knows when and why that feud started, and it's none of my business.
They lived here for ten years—John and Judith Carmichael, their daughter Evie and little son Tim. He was just a baby when they arrived, and Evie was about three, no more. Two years ago, John and Judith went to inspect the distant pastures. Evie was home with little Tim, and those three showed up. They demanded Evie tell them where her parents were, or they'd slit little Tim's throat. Evie didn't tell, and they slit little Tim's throat. Their stinking hands didn't tremble to do it, mister vagrant. But that was just the beginning. They hit Evie. The poor thing fell against a wall and knocked out a rotten beam, and that—imagine—fell on one of the Olsens and split his skull like a can of stew. The other two got terribly scared and angry. They pressed their rifle barrels to little Evie's head and pulled the triggers. But there were no shots, mister vagrant, both Winchesters misfired. And then the Olsens decided it was witchcraft, and little Evie was a witch. They dragged her into the woods, hung her from a tree, and lit a fire beneath her. Evie burned alive, and no one heard her scream, and the Olsens ran off to find the Carmichaels. They found them and shot them like dogs, and took their horses, mister vagrant, every last one. Evie was 18 then. The downpour extinguished her fire, but Evie's legs burned. When people ran to her, she was hanging from the tree, wet as a frog, and coughing from the smoke. Instead of feet, she had two piles of soaked ash, and above—a fried steak on the bone, like the one you're eating now, mister vagrant… No-no-no-no! And who's going to clean up? Huh? What men have we got now, not like years ago… Yes, what was I saying? Evie. She was conscious, she saw and felt her legs burning to ash. Doctor Sheppard took her in and nursed her for half a year. Gangrene set in, and he cut off her legs completely, right up to her rear. Poor Evie was left with just a torso, arms, and a head. Good thing those bastards stripped her naked: a dress would have burned her whole. Besides her legs, nothing was damaged, and the late Doctor Sheppard even said she could have children. And you know what's most interesting, mister vagrant?
— Ooooooohhhhh…
— No-no-no-no! You'd better listen. The most interesting thing is this. Evie, I tell you, used to be a scrawny chick. A scrawny chick. A tomboy, what can you expect? But now… Now she's such that… fuck your mother to hell up an Indian's ass, I apologize, of course. No one will take her. Who needs a torso? Doctor Sheppard passed away, a holy man, may God give him good drink in heaven—and poor Evie was left alone. Our women bring her food and firewood. So she lives—on the charity of the whole village. She thanks us with songs, and we listen to her and cry, looking at her little face. You saw for yourself, mister… Hey, where are you going? Mister!…
***
Five minutes later, Nash was knocking on the bungalow:
— Evie! Miss Evie! Let me in, please!
No one answered, and Nash stood there, listening to the silence, then pulled the door. The door opened unexpectedly easily, and he, hesitating, stepped inside.
There he immediately saw Evie's frightened silhouette. She was sitting in the semi-darkness of the hallway, pressed against the wall, and looking at him.
— Evie… uh… mmmwaaa… — Nash mumbled, suddenly forgetting everything he wanted to say. — Sorry, uh… I came in, you didn't answer, and I came in, that is… But don't be afraid, I'm not that, I just…
— Go away, — said Evie.
Nash's eyes adjusted to the dark, and he could clearly see the strange flattened shape of the figure in the chair, as if Evie were made of snow and had melted, sinking down.
— Wait, don't be angry… Miss Evie, you see, I'm an artist, and that is… I really want to paint you, and…
— No!
— But… but why? Don't think there's anything immoral about it, even a monk posed for me…
— No! Go away!
— But listen! I… you don't understand what it means for an artist… And I'll pay, of course, as much as I can…
— No! — Evie's voice broke into a shriek.
— Just listen! Calm down. I'll paint you only from the waist up, and no one will see that you…
— Go away!
— Don't you know any other words besides 'go away'?
— Get out of here! — Evie screamed, jerking her whole body.
"Damn, shouldn't have reminded her she's a cripple." Nash felt resentment boiling up in him and tried with all his might to suppress it:
— Okay. Okay. Alright, — he raised his hands soothingly. — I'll leave, you calm down, and tomorrow…
— No tomorrow! Leave me alone! Leave me alone, all of you! Don't touch me!
Nash hated
female hysterics. "Remember what she's been through," he told himself, but in vain—he suddenly lost control:
— Who's touching you? Why are you yelling? Why are you crying? What did I do to you? — he shouted at Evie, moving closer to her.
For a while they yelled simultaneously, then Evie suddenly propped herself up, with just her arms, like a little monkey, flipped over the chair, flopped onto the floor, and crawled away from Nash—toward the doorway to another room. Her thighs, wrapped in the hem of her skirt, dragged along the floor like a sack of flour. She moved quickly and deftly, but the sight still tightened Nash's throat.
— What's wrong? Where are you going? I just want to…
Evie was crawling away from him, and he, suddenly losing his head, caught up with her in two steps and grabbed her under the arms:
— Silly girl, sil… Wait!
Evie struggled like a wild animal. She was light, but her arms were unexpectedly strong, and Nash barely managed to subdue her, throwing her onto the bed.
He didn't know why he chased and caught her, and could hardly explain it to anyone; and now he held her, gripping her furious hands, and repeated like a parrot:
— What's wrong? What's wrong?…
Evie breathed greedily, gasping, jerking in Nash's hands.
— Evie… girl… — he said.
Evie managed to spit in his face. Nash suddenly became furious:
— Oh, really?… Well, wait, little witch! — he tore the silk shawl from Evie, twisted her hands, and tied them to the headboard, tightly knotting the silk cord with the wrought-iron latticework. Nash acted quickly and deftly, like a maniac. Catching his breath, he saw that Evie had come undone in the struggle, and from under the cut-off hem of her dress, her naked body was visible. Squinting with rage, Nash lifted her hem, making her howl like a puppy, and saw two round stumps, even and smooth, and between them—the hairy shame of her womanhood. The stumps extended downward no more than an inch and were, essentially, the lower rounding of her buttocks, where her body ended without transitioning into legs.
Exposing Evie's terrible secret, Nash choked on an unbearable feeling, like pain, into which his rage suddenly transformed. Ignoring Evie's spitting, he stripped off all her rags, tearing the dress in half, and, undressing her completely, buried his nose in her hot stomach, covering it with kisses.
Helpless, tied Evie thrashed beneath him, and he descended from her stomach to the stumps and kissed them, dying from the sweet bitterness that suddenly overwhelmed him. Little by little, Evie quieted down, and Nash moved from the stumps, hot and rough, to Evie's female secret, buried in coarse red hair. He parted the tight folds with his tongue and plunged into the core, sticky and hot, as if in sauce; licking off the top layer, he dipped his tongue deeper, delving into the depths, and heard Evie moaning, swallowing tears.
"What am I doing?… Nothing special, — he reassured himself, — just a little punishment for a little witch… And no rape" — he thought, groaning from the tightness in his member, which had long been rubbing against the footboard.
Nash's tongue teased the base of the sticky hole, crawled into it, parted the salty walls, and licked deeper, stretching the spring of the virginal hymen, then crawled out and with long licks enveloped the hot little mound, pulsing and swelling like a tiny volcano. Evie moved her stumps, and Nash suddenly realized she was spreading her thighs and offering herself to him.
Gasping with effort, he firmly embraced her, impaling her on his tongue, and licked Evie with feverishly cruel licks, tormenting the soft flesh with his tip, numb from salt. A strange thought swirled in him, which he pushed away: the absence of legs turned out to be a thing very convenient for sex. When a woman ends at the thighs and slit below, you can do anything with her…
Evie had long been bursting with moans, and Nash licked and licked her; penetrating the entrance of the hole, he sucked in the entire little bud with all its petals and worked his tongue in the core, forcing Evie to shudder all over and wail as if in terrible pain. "I wonder if she screamed like that when she was burning?" he thought. His member